When John met The Woman
by Blackcurrant Bonbons
Summary: The story of when John met Irene Adler and what followed. Will Sherlock sit and watch John fall hopelessly in love or will he intervene before it's too late? John/Irene/Sherlock
1. A Beautiful Woman

When John met The Woman

**'To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex'**

**ACD A Scandal in Bohemia.**

John Watson strode down Baker Street, coat collar turned up against the rain. But whilst his outward appearance seemed amiable, inside he was fuming. That bloody self check out machine. His blood curdled at the thought of it. Made him look like a complete imbecile in front of the entire supermarket. Sherlock would find that amusing. And he hadn't even managed to get the milk that they always seemed to run out of. His breath curled up and entwined with the fog that seeped through the city like a disease. He looked down at his shoes, now completely permeated with cold water, due to various puddles. His socks had become a second skin and his feet were like blocks of ice. Caught up in his raging thoughts, he didn't catch sight of the beautiful woman walking towards him, arms laden with shopping bags bursting to the seams. Eyes still staring down at his shoes, he looked up only when it was too late. When they collided, her shopping bags fell, splitting open, contents spilling over the pavement.

"Shit!" Exclaimed John. "Oh God, I'm so sorry, I wasn't focusing," he bent over and began to collect her soaked shopping off the floor.

"Oh no, don't be sorry, it's alright," the mysterious woman kneeled over and picked up a particularly expensive looking dress. They both looked up at each other, and she smiled. John hadn't managed to glimpse a look of her face yet, but when he saw that beautiful, unearthly smile, his stomach went all fuzzy and he gormlessly smiled back. He only realized he was mindlessly staring at her when her cheeks flushed rose pink and she bent her head over again, gorgeous brown locks spilling around her head like a halo. John coughed. It was still raining cats and dogs, and he was beginning to shiver. She must be freezing. Then he realized all of her plastic bags had been completely ripped up, the last of them running away down the street like misbehaving children.

"I have tons of plastic bags at my place, I can give you however many you need," he said this in spite of the fact that they had absolutely no plastic bags whatsoever, he prayed to God that Mrs. Hudson had some.

"That would be much appreciated, thank you," she gave him another dazzling smile, and he blushed furiously like a school girl.

"It's this way," he stuttered, and the two began the short walk to 221b, arms laden with miscellaneous items. There was no conversation, the woman's face turning around in John's mind torturing him. He stumbled into the entrance of the flat, glimpsing back at her face to see her expression. Her eyes glinted, and a small smile spread across her face. His insides churned. Thankfully, Sherlock wasn't in. The man wasn't the best at welcoming strangers. He carefully place his burden on the now clear table, and she followed suit.

"Sorry, it's very messy; my flatmate isn't what you would call the tidiest guy in the world." He chuckled.

"It's wonderful," she sighed. "Thank you very much for this."

"Nah. it's alright, it was my fault in the first place," John squirmed nervously under her appreciative look. "I'll go get you some plastic bags. I'll be back in a minute." He ran down to the coat peg, and sure enough, his saviour Mrs. Hudson had left some plastic bags hanging there. He would thank her later. He grabbed a handful and sprinted back up the stairs.

"No need to rush on my account, please," she smiled at him again. He smiled back. She had such a beautiful face. Eyes, deep blue, sparkling, a perfectly straight nose, and red, full lips, with a pale, flawless complexion, so rare in the age of fake tan. He grinned back. Together they loaded the contents into the new plastic bags, working in companionable silence. John was almost sad when they had finished, he wanted for her to stay longer. She carefully picked up the bags in one hand. "Thank you so much for this," she smiled heartbreakingly up at him. John smiled back at her. As she turned around to leave, he realised something.

"Sorry, I forgot to ask your name!" She turned around, and grinned mischievously. "My name's Irene Adler." John sighed. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. "I'm John Watson. It was a pleasure meeting you." He held out his hand, but she pulled him in for a hug, somehow managing to gracefully wrap her arms around him, and still carry all those bags. "It was wonderful meeting you too," she whispered. John's heart was beating faster than light. As she pulled away, her perfume lingered on him. He savoured the flowery smell.

"Goodbye, John, I hope we meet again," John opened the door, smiling madly. "Goodbye, Irene." he watched her petite, graceful body descend the stairs. Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it, heart still beating crazily from the hug. He felt sad when he realized he would never see her again. But her angelic face would always be imprinted on his mind.


	2. Waiting, Watching, Praying

**Just a short filler where I introduce Sherlock, and then the plot continues! Please enjoy and review! Love you all!**

"John?" Sherlock shouted to him from behind the door to the bathroom.

"Yes Sherlock?" John asked tiredly.

"Are you perchance wearing new, more feminine cologne?"

"Now why would I being doing that Sherlock?" Honestly, Sherlock sometimes.

"Ah, it's the more obvious reason then."

"And what would that be?"

"That there has been a woman in the flat, and seeing as we are both bachelors, that makes the circumstances even more suspicious."

"Mrs. Hudson maybe? She's a woman." John's mind suddenly flashed back to the beautiful, mysterious Irene who had visited just over a week ago now. He had been counting the days. His heart fluttered briefly. Then he remembered he would never see her again. His heart sank like an anchor.

"No, no, Mrs. Hudson never wears Dior. Too expensive. You haven't had any 'visitors' around lately, John?" Sherlock's head peeped out from behind the door. John felt himself slowly flush scarlet. His eyes dropped back down the limp newspaper in his hand.

"No, Sarah hasn't been over in a while. We broke up months ago, remember?" He tried to sound innocent, but Sherlock clearly wasn't convinced, but thankfully, he left it at that. John sighed. No need to tell Sherlock. It didn't matter anyway. The chances of ever seeing her again, were unlikely maybe even impossible, he reflected silently. Nothing wrong in praying though, was there?

**Keep reading, because it gets very interesting!**


	3. Knock knock

**Sorry it is very slow to begin with, but hang on in there and it will get better! Enjoy!**

The loud, relentless banging at the front door startled John out of his doze on the battered couch. He looked pointedly at Sherlock, who was plucking harshly at his violin, competing with the pouring rain outside. "Would you like to get that for once, Sherlock?" But John knew the answer before it had even slipped out of Sherlock's lips. "No, not particularly John." Sighing deeply, John heaved himself out of his comfortable dent in the couch. Stumbling down the stairs, still slightly dazed from his recent sleep, he opened the creaking front door. For a minute he thought he was hallucinating, because in front of him, was the beautiful Irene Adler, who he had met only 2 weeks ago, and here she was again. After the immediate thrill of seeing her angelic presence again, he realised that her immaculate appearance was disgruntled, her hair in a disarray, her face distraught with fear and her breathing heavy. "John!" she cried in relief.

"Irene! What's wrong?" he didn't question what she was doing here, he was overwhelmed with the feeling to help and nurture this lost sheep.

"Oh, Jon, I'm so sorry to be convenient to you, but I have nowhere else to go! You see, someone who has a particular...grudge against me, has been after me for several weeks now, and I'm desperate, alone and I'm so scared!" She looked up at him, eyes awash with fright and innocence, and John melted unconditionally. "Of course Irene, come in." She gratefully stepped into the enveloping warmth of the cosy house, and John helped her remove her soaking coat. She shivered, and John realized she was only wearing a thin pink t-shirt underneath. Her arms were covered n goose bumps. She stared to cough, bending over.

"Oh my god, you must be freezing! Here, take my jumper," before she could protest, he pulled his beige woollen jumper over his head, and gently handed it to her. She didn't protest anymore, merely glancing gratefully at him and pulling the jumper over her head. His jumper completely enveloped her, and she pulled the sleeves over her frozen hands. She gave him another genuine, dazzling smile. John smiled back. Then her face glazed over with weakness and pain, and the words, "John..." slipped from her mouth and she fainted. John, military instincts still intact, darted forward and grabbed her before her body crumpled to the floor. Clasping her innocently around the waist, he gave her a once over medical assessment. Her complexion was beyond pale, and he could feel her ribs even through the jumper and t shirt. She must have been starving. What kind of monster would drive this beautiful woman to such extremes? Carefully, he cradled her body, now as light as a feather, and began a slow ascent up the narrow stairs. When he opened the door, he completely ignored Sherlock, all his focus on bringing Irene back to the health. He rushed around the tiny flat, making tea, dumping blankets on the couch, turning up the heating and when he finally managed to sit down, he perched on the edge of the couch where he had lovingly laid Irene's unconscious body and began to stroke the hair away from her face. Only then did he realise that Sherlock had been bombarding him with questions from the moment he had arrived.

"John? JOHN! Who is she?"

"_She_ is Irene Adler. I've met her before."

"And how was that exactly?"

"I bumped into her on the street. All her shopping spilt open, so I helped her."

"Ah, so that was the new cologne. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well I didn't think it was necessary at the time. What would it mean to you anyway?"

"Nothing."

"Okay then. Let's leave it at that."

Sherlock huffed, and stalked off to the kitchen. God, Sherlock was insufferable when he was his in one of his moods. Just as he was about to follow him, Irene stirred. Her deep blue eyes gazed up at his, and for a moment he thought he would be forever lost in that deep blue ocean. She reached out for his hand, and clasped it, giving it a gentle squeeze. A warm shiver went up his spine.

"Thank you for this John," she smiled weakly, releasing her grip on his hand, but still looking up into his eyes. He did not say anything, just smiled and allowed himself to sink in the deep blue ocean. Sherlock chose this moment to enter the room. John looked up resentfully at him. He just couldn't stay away could he? Irene looked up as he entered the room. "So this is your flatmate John?" John nodded. "The one and only. Irene, this is Sherlock, Sherlock, this is Irene. Sherlock stretched out his hand. That was strange. Sherlock never did that. Irene accepted it graciously, and shake it as best she could in her awkward position, but holding it no longer than was necessary, John noted appreciatively. But why was he so jealous over a woman he'd only met twice? Sure, she was stunningly beautiful, but he barely knew anything about her. However these thoughts were forgotten as he allowed himself to return to the deep ocean that were Irene's eyes.


	4. Melt

**Hey guys sorry I took so long to update! Luckily my Xmas holidays start in 3 days so after that I will probably be constantly updating because I am so sad that I have nothing else to do! (Not that I mind or anything...) So hope you like and please review, and to any who already have, I love you! **

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Later that night, Irene was curled up on the sofa, wrapped in layers of blankets, holding a steaming cup of tea, courtesy of John. John was sat next to her, making sure he didn't invade her personal space, but she had snuggled into him, and he had eventually put his arm around her. It felt good. Sherlock had gone into his room, probably bored and annoyed that John's attention had been turned to someone else, which rarely happened. John and Irene sat in a comfortable silence, appreciating each other's presence.

"Irene?"

"Yes John?" Irene smiled up at him. He smiled back.

"Can I ask a question?"

"Anything John."

"Who was chasing you?"

Irene's beautiful eyes filled with fear and John immediately regretted asking the question.

"Moriarty."

That one word made John bristle and his insides filled with cold fear and hatred. He despised that evil man with a hateful passion. Couldn't he just hurry up and die that scum bag bastard...

"John? John?" Irene cried. John realised he had gone tense, eyes glazed over with hate.

"Sorry, sorry. Why is he after you?"

Irene winced. John stroked her arm.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"He wants me." Irene closed her eyes. John was shocked.

"He wants... you? You mean you personally?"

"Yes. Surpirsed?"

"Not really, I mean you're so beautif..." Irene looked at him. "I mean I can see why he would be attracted to you."

"I hate him." Irene's beautiful blue eye filled with a terrifying combination of fear and hate.

"I promise I will never let him touch you."

Irene smiled, looking up at him. "You're so good to me John. Thank you." Then much to John's surprise she leant forward and pecked him on the cheek. It was brief, but John's limbs melted like butter. No woman had ever had this effect on him before. Never. He grinned at her, and she grinned back. John thought he had never smiled so much in his life before. He'd never had anything really to smile about. Irene lent back into him, burying her face deep into his shoulder. It was only when her body began to rise gently and evenly did John realise she had fallen asleep on him. Smiling inwardly to himself, he found for the second time that night carrying Irene gently upstairs, cradling her sparrow body in his steady arms, where he gently laid her on his bed, tucking under the sheets and duvet, being careful not to wake her.

Closing the door to his room, he smiled again to himself. Life was getting much, much better.


	5. Psychedelic Breakfast

**Hello again! The plot seems to have a mind of its own, and I am going to love writing the next few chapters, so hang in there! This chapter is a short but necessary filler, and then the plot continues! I love all the people who have reviewed, alerted and added so far, keep it up!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Simple as. And I make no profits from this.**

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John awoke the next morning with a painful crick in his sore neck; due to the fact that he had spent his almost sleepless night crouched on the small, battered sofa, curled up in a back breaking position in an attempt to get comfortable during the night. He painfully arose, stretching his aching arms wide, and hearing several satisfying clicks in his back. Yawning loudly, he reached over for his mauve dressing gown; which had been a birthday present from Sherlock last year. John remembered that he had been pleasantly shocked when Sherlock had nonchalantly handed him the lumpy parcel; Sherlock was not one for signs of affection, let alone giving presents. He smiled briefly as he remembered Sherlock almost childlike shock when John had hugged him in thanks.

He shuffled slowly over to the grimy kitchen, carefully bypassing several of Sherlock's damn experiments. He tried not to gag; after all, he was attempting to eat breakfast. He put the battered kettle on to boil and browsed the cupboards for some decent, non-stale bread. He had no idea how he was going to feed Irene; she was obviously someone not used to leftover Chinese take aways and cold fish and chips. But not many people were, John thought, as he contemplated not for the last time the hap hazardous and unhealthy lifestyle he had had since living with Sherlock. The kettle began to wail like a distressed banshee, and as the toast popped up John realised it was as black as night. John cursed loudly.

"What's wrong John?" John span around nervously as he heard Irene's innocent little voice echo from his bedroom doorway.

"It's the bloody toast again."

Irene appeared from the bedroom, still wearing her crumpled clothes from yesterday and her beautiful curls in a mess, but her deep blue eyes sparkled with vitality.

"Men these days. I wonder what they do without us." She grinned impishly. John could not help but grin gormlessly back. She floated gracefully down the stairs and into the messy kitchen. "These are all Sherlock's?" She looked at him bemused.

John grimaced. "I'm afraid so. I try to tidy up but..."

"It's alright. Now let's see what we have." she skipped impishly to the fridge, and John watched in awe as she began to pull out food they never even thought they'd had; eggs still in date, fresh milk, rashers of bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes and sausages.

"Did we even have this stuff before?" John asked in consternation.

"I believe Sherlock took the liberty early this morning of popping out to the shops. Does he usually do that?"

John was in a state of shock. "No." was all he was able to muster. Sherlock, never, never went shopping. Sherlock hated shopping almost as much as he hated Moriarty or Mycroft. Why change now? He would have words with him later.

John could only stand back and watch as Irene expertly began to fry the eggs, bacon, tomatoes and mushrooms, miraculously managing with the single frying pan that John could find in encompassing mess that was the flat. He contemplated that this would be the first proper meal he had well in... ages. He couldn't remember the last time he had sat down at the table and ate a proper meal. Irene being here would certainly bring a few perks. And not just food, his subconscious thought irrationally. He crushed the thought immediately. John provided most of the light conversation as she worked, talking about his family, Harry, and many of the cases he had been on with Sherlock. She was a willing listener, laughing at his jokes, adding a comment or question here and there, whilst still being attentive. John noticed that her eyes always lit up every time he started talking about Sherlock's numerous cases. Please say she didn't start running after him as well. This is how it had started with him, and look where he was now. He didn't want an incident of a replay at the pool. He shuddered. Never again. His mind reeled back to the moment when he had stepped out, covered in Semtex, Moriarty's voice wriggling in his ear. The terrifying nightmares still haunted him. He didn't want that to happen to anyone. That's what happens when people follow Sherlock. They got hurt, or worse. That would never happen to Irene, he would make sure of that. Why was he so protective over her? After all, he had only been with her for all of two days. He couldn't decide what she did or what she didn't. She was her own person. But he must keep her safe from Moriarty, at all costs.

"John! Breakfast's ready!" Irene chirped. John thought he would never get used to the word 'breakfast'. It had become practically nonexistent with Sherlock, the only person who had ever done that to him was his mother, and that had been years ago.

He and Irene sat down around the small space on the creaking table which somehow Irene had cleared, and he ravenously tucked in.

"This is delicious," John managed to say in between large mouthfuls of food. He was not making a good impression. Irene giggled, "John, you're so funny." John couldn't help but laugh at himself. It was an affect she had on him.

"I'm glad you're here Irene." John stated more seriously. "Not just for the food."

"I don't know what I would have done John if you hadn't taken me in. You're such a kind, wonderful person." She beamed up at him. As John grinned back down at her, he realised she had a smidgen of egg yolk at the side of her red full lips. He unconsciously reached out to wipe it away. Irene stiffened cautiously as his hand moved towards her face, but she softened when she realised his intentions. As he wiped it off with his calloused thumb, she gently took his rough hand in her smooth, pale one and entwined their fingers. He stared at it momentarily shocked in awe. Was he hallucinating or in a dream? Her deep blue ocean eyes staring into his made this moment even more psychedelic. Gently, he took her other free hand in his one, and this odd couple sat like this for what seemed like forever, both entranced by each other's eyes.


	6. She's Special, John

**To all my wonderful readers, I apologize profusely for the long and unnecessary delay of month today delay of this chapter! Life has caught up with me recently, and has been more than a bit hectic and stressful to say the least! I'm sorry if this chapter is not up to the usual standard, I found it hard to get back into the story! Sorry once again! Please R&R, and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. And I make no profits. Simples. **

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Unfortunately for both of them, this beautiful moment was ruined shortly afterwards by the entrance of none other than Sherlock. The two pulled apart guiltily, and John couldn't help but groan inwardly at the loss of contact. Bloody Sherlock always had the knack of bursting in when you least bloody wanted him. His despair however, quickly dissipated into shock when he saw that Sherlock's arms were laden with more shopping bags, and from what John could see, they were full of clothes. Sherlock clothes shopping? It would be a cold day in hell when that happened. Suppressing his angry rant for later, he sent a questioning look at Sherlock. Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow in response.

"Ah, John, Irene. I took the liberty of buying some new clothes for Irene, as obviously in her current state she is not in the position to leave the house." Sherlock looked like he wanted to say more, but instead unceremoniously dumped the bags on the counter, and flung himself full length on the sofa, pulling out his Blackberry. John frowned. Something was seriously up with Sherlock. But he was happily distracted as Irene browsed through the bags, a huge smile spread across her beautiful face. She flashed a grin at him, and he grinned helplessly back.

"John?" Irene asked.

"Yes Irene? What's wrong?" John looked at her expectantly.

"Is it alright if I use your shower?"

John coughed awkwardly, blush crawling up his face. "Yes, erm, of course. It's just beside my bedroom."

She nodded in thanks. "Oh, and Sherlock?" Sherlock looked up at her, surprised. "Thank you." She walked over to him, and gave him a brief hug, despite the awkward angle of the sofa. John saw Sherlock visibly stiffen, and only relaxed when she moved away. But although John knew it was only a friendly gesture of thanks, he couldn't stop the tingle of jealousy that flew up his spine.

She smiled in thanks again, and headed in the direction of the bathroom. As soon as the door shut behind her, John strode towards Sherlock, who still lay on the sofa, looking up at him nonchalantly.

"Sherlock! What is wrong with you? First shopping, and now you let people hug you?"

"I believe John, it is what they call, kindness? Something you've been trying to instil into me, yes? I can't see why you'd have a problem with poor old sociopathic Sherlock, gods forbid, actually being kind? People can change, John."

John snorted disbelievingly. "I know I'm an idiot to you Sherlock, but I'm not stupid. Popular to contrary belief, I have actually learnt something the past year I've been living with you. You can't fool me with this random act of 'kindness'. Yes, people can change, but you can't. You want something from her, what is it?" Sherlock sent him a look of all innocence. John raised an eyebrow.

"Sherlock, I've seen that look every time you claim you didn't blow up the new microwave. And you did."

"Alright, alright. I can see I'm going to have nothing but the Spanish Inquisition unless I just don't spit it out. I'm disappointed in you lack of faith of me John."

John snorted again. He was surprised Sherlock was actually going to admit to something. Sherlock never broke in arguments, the main reason why John had lost so many. "Just say it Sherlock."

Sherlock gave a small smile before continuing. "She's special John."

John frowned. Well he certainly hadn't been expecting that. "Special in what way, exactly?" he prompted.

"Can't you feel it?" Sherlock looked at him questioningly. John sighed. Sherlock was making no sense whatsoever.

"No Sherlock, of course I can't 'feel' anything! If you're just messing me a round now..."

"No John, you don't understand! You can practically feel the intelligence rolling off her! Say for example, when I first met you. I only felt a flicker of intelligence underneath the surface. It is the same with everyone I meet, John. I can just gauge their intelligence. Except for Anderson, of course, because he doesn't have any."

John bristled slightly at the offhand insult to his intelligence, but let it go because Sherlock probably hadn't meant to insult him. "So when you say intelligent, how clever are we talking about?"

Sherlock grinned. "She's my female counterpart John. I can just tell."

John stood there, gobsmacked. He would never have imagined... she certainly had never shown any sign of it... but who was he to judge, he'd only known her for 3 days! Anyone who attracted attention from Moriarty must certainly be special. A female Sherlock? That was worse than he could have imagined. All the qualities of a woman, but with Sherlock's intelligence. Who had he fallen for? Just then he felt guilty. Once again he had gone along with Sherlock's opinion, but he hadn't even asked Irene. He felt ashamed.

"How do I know your telling the truth?"

Sherlock grinned maniacally once again. Something really was up with him. "We shall find out now." Just at the moment the bathroom door opened, Sherlock's phone rang. John groaned. The fates really had it in for him today. Sherlock triumphantly pulled out his phone. "Lestrade." John groaned again. This could only lead to only one thing. Irene bounced down the steps, in a new pair of jeans and a white t shirt, hair in a messy bun, face glowing. John nearly fainted. Nearly.

Sherlock jumped up. "John! We have a case! I shall require your assistance for this." John nearly nodded in agreement, but then looked over at Irene, who was looking at him expectantly. There was only one way to find out if Sherlock was correct. "Irene, would you like to come? You'll be perfectly safe." Irene grinned. "If I wouldn't inconvenience you..."

"Not at all." Sherlock piped in, John sending him a glare.

"John, there's a cab waiting outside. 2 minutes." And with that Sherlock had gone, slamming the door behind him. John sighed inwardly. This would be interesting.


	7. Appearances are Deceiving

**Hello reader! Sorry I've taken just under a month to update this story, I just lost my inspiration. I think things are taking a more 'dark' turn in this chapter, and I am really going to enjoy writing the next few chapters, so that will mean quicker updates!**

**I want everyone to forget the murder in this chapter. It is of no insignificance what so ever and is very badly done. Basically I nicked some of Sherlock's deductions from the Study in Pink episode and made Irene say them. So I was just trying to showcase her brilliant intelligence, nothing more. **

**Hope you enjoy, I loved writing the end bit, and something very sinister is going to happen in the next chapter, so keep reading!**

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As the cab pulled up on the curb outside by what John presumed was the 'crime scene', he let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. He was sat in the middle of the back row, squished between Sherlock and Irene, Irene being on his right and Sherlock to his left. Irene had the expression of a child in Disney Land, sparkling eyes animated. Sherlock lounged nonchalantly in his seat, but John didn't miss the nervous twitch of his tapered fingers. If he hadn't known any better he could have sworn he was sat between two blood hounds.

Sherlock stepped out into the street, surprising John by opening the cab door for Irene obligingly. But John missed the mock bow and cheeky wink Sherlock gave to Irene, and the small smile she gave in return.

Before John could say a word, Sherlock had darted under the yellow police tape, and barged past a befuddled Lestrade and an angry Anderson.

"Sherlock! Don't touch anything! It's a crime scene!" Lestrade shouted at Sherlock's receding figure. "Anderson, go after him!" A very pissed off looking Anderson groaned, marching into the house. John sighed, looking up at the bleak, drizzling sky. _Best get this over with. _He strode towards Lestrade, and Irene took his hand, and much to his shoke, planted a kiss on his cheek. He almost froze to the spot, but his now mechanical legs went into automatic mode and dragged him forward. The best response he could give was a goofy grin, which she giggled at.

"Hello John," greeted Lestrade. "Forget Sherlock's leash today?"

John chuckled at their long standing joke. "Afraid so Greg. I'd like you to meet Irene Adler, my..." he struggled to find the appropriate word. 'Friend wasn't fitting, 'associate' too formal and 'acquaintance' too cold. He gasped like a fish out of water.

"Girlfriend." He turned to look at who had spoken. Much to his surprise, it was Irene. She was still smiling, but her eyes had ceased to sparkle. "I believe I am already acquainted with Greg."

John looked between the pair questioningly. Lestrade looked – God forbid – almost frightened.

"John, there's something I have to tell you." Lestrade sent him a grave look, and John could almost sense the ominous warning about to roll off his tongue.

"John! Irene!" Sherlock's voice broke through the bubble of tension that had formed around the three.

"Come on John!" Irene sent him a dazzling grin, and proceeded to drag him up the stairs. He sent Lestrade an apologetic look.

As they entered the bedroom, John wasn't at all surprised to see a dead body lying prostrate on the carpeted floor. He turned to check Irene's expression, but she didn't look at all fazed. Sherlock was standing in the corner of the room, beside a large double bed. That was unusual; Sherlock usually was on his knees, leaning over the body with magnifying glass in hand.

"Ah, finally, you're here. Now Irene, if you would like to take a look at the poor woman?" He gestured to the body on the floor.

Irene sent a questioning look at John, but he merely nodded. Truth be told he was quite excited, not that he would ever admit it, obviously.

"If that's alright with everyone?" Irene looked around. Sherlock waved away the question. "Of course it is!"

Irene moved cautiously at first, but then got down on her knees – in a pose that reminded John all too much of Sherlock – and cast an eye over the body.

"She's in her early 40s and has been married unhappily for several years – around ten. She was a serial adulterer, had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married."

"How did you..." John's face contorted with a mixture of surprise and confusion.

"Her wedding ring." Sherlock uttered from across the room.

"It's too tight," continued Irene. "She was thinner when she first had it, so she's been married for a while- 10 years. There's rind in the gem setting, whereas all her other jewellery has been cleaned recently – which tells us about the state of her marriage. The inside is shinier than the outside, suggesting that it is removed regularly. It isn't for her work, her nails are too long. So she works it off for something else – it can't be easy, so she would have had a reason. It's not something, it's someone. So she couldn't have had one lover, too hard to sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so it must have been a string of them."

John stood there, baffled. She really was amazing.

"I think I've had enough fun for today. It's obvious that..." Sherlock stopped.

"She was murdered by a jealous lover who discovered she was married." Irene finished for him.

"I believe Lestrade will find the man in question at..."

"15a Abingdon Road." Irene smiled.

"Probably 15b."

John was dumbstruck. He was used to Sherlock's 'magic tricks', but to see the pair working in sync like this was frightening. It also sent a tingle of jealously up his spine. How they had deduced all of that was beyond.

Sherlock scribbled the address down on a piece of paper, and proceeded to head down the stairs. Irene and John followed.

"Have fun?" John asked cautiously.

"That was amazing! Thank you John!" She gave him another kiss. It was pure luck that John did not fall down the stairs.

"You were brilliant." John smiled.

Irene blushed and hung her head in modesty.

Sherlock barely glanced at a confused Lestrade as he shoved the scrap of paper into his hands.

"You'll find the murderer here. I would hurry if I were you, his plane to Canada leaves in an hour. He's not armed, but I would be careful. Appearances are deceiving."

"Sherlock...!" Lestrade didn't continue, Sherlock was already opening the cab door.

As John and Irene walked past, Lestrade said nothing. John waved feebly, keeping quiet. As he was about to close the front door behind him, Lestrade grabbed his coat sleeve and pulled him close until they were almost touching noses.

"Be careful John." Lestrade whispered desperately. "She's dangerous. She's done things you could never imagine. Murdered innocents..." He was about to say more, but Irene tugged at his hand.

"It's been wonderful to meet you again, Greg." She smiled, but the malicious hint was visible to all but John. "I'm sure I will see you very, very soon..."

Lestrade shook John's hand, fixing him with a purposeful look. John followed Irene, but looked back when Lestrade spoke again.

"Watch your back John. People aren't always as they seem..."

It was only till he had settled into the leather seat of the car did John dare to glance down at the small scrap of paper Lestrade had placed in his hand when he had shook it.

All it read was

_Remember pool_


	8. Sickened To The Core

**Hello reader! I loved writing this chapter so much that I'm ashamed - but at least you get an early update! Love all you reviewers out there! **

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_Beep beep. Beep beep._

_If Sherlock's woke me up to get him a bloody pen again, I'm actually going to kill him this time._

John rubbed his heavy eyes groggily and stretched over to grab his persistent phone on the table. Blinking away sleep, it took a few seconds to realise there was no caller ID._ Who the hell was calling him at 6 o'clock in the morning?_

Not waiting to find out any longer, John clicked the answer button.

"Hello , who is this?" John yawned.

"John. It's Sally. Something's happened to Greg."

"What's happened?" But when Sally replied next, a cold knife of worry twisted in the pit of his stomach. God forbid, Sally sounded _shaken_, almost frightened. The usual cocky facade that was always present had slipped, and she sounded like a tearful child.

"He's was stabbed in the chest last night whilst he was sleeping."

John's thoughts clogged up with fear and worry. Lestrade had always been so strong, so untiring, like he was invincible. _Why him? _"Is he alright?"

"He's in a bad shape, the knife just missed his heart, but he's in hospital now and he seems a bit more stable."

"I'll be right over. Which hospital is he at?"

John hastily ripped a piece of paper of the corner of one of his medical text books and scribbled out the address that Sally dictated to him.

"Thank you John." Sally all but whispered.

"It's fine. Greg's a good friend. I'll see you both in about half an hour." John rolled out of bed, swaying slight from the shock of the news. Of all the people, why Greg? He felt his stomach grumble impatiently. He had, as usual not had a chance to eat last night as Sherlock had placed another few body parts in the fridge, and John didn't particularly feel like consuming any of the products in there.

Pulling on a pair of crumpled jeans from the lottery game that was his pile of clothes, Johns smiled as he pulled out his beige jumper that Irene had worn. He smiled at the fond memory, but now tinted with the worry for Lestrade.

"Sherlock!" He hollered. No response. "I'm off to the hospital for a few hours, Lestrade's been hurt badly and I'm going to pay him a visit! Are you going to come?" No response. It was times like this, John thought, that Sherlock's sociopathic tendencies really shone through.

"I'll take that as a no then." John didn't want to bother Irene at this time in the morning. _Speaking of Irene, where was she_? He'd slept in his room last night, and she wasn't on the couch. In Sherlock's room, perhaps? But then where the hell would Sherlock be?

"Irene?" John called.

"Yes John?" Irene's beautiful, sleepy voice replied. So she was in Sherlock's room.

"Is Sherlock in there?"

"No he's not. Why? What's wrong?"

John let out a sigh of relief. Knowing Sherlock he probably wasn't even in the flat. "Nothing, but I'll be off to the hospital for a few hours, Lestrade's been hurt."

"That's awful!"

"I know, it's dreadful. Anyway, I'll be back in a few hours."

"I'll see you then John. I love you."

"Love you too."

His stomach rumbled again impatiently. "Alright, alright, hang on a minute." He really must be going mad. He was talking to his stomach. Well living with Sherlock did do some strange things to you.

His eyes settled upon a loaf of bread sitting upon the countertop. He did not hesitate to walk towards it. He would have time for a small sandwich. Reaching out automatically for the bread knife, his hands grasped at air. _Where the hell has Sherlock put it this time? _And now he couldn't even have a sandwich. _Great start to the day._

Running down the steep stairs, he slammed the heavy black door behind him. As the door closed behind he cursed. Trust him to leave his coat on the other side of the door. Re opening the door, he grabbed a coat. Despite the fact it was the heaviest, bulkiest one of the rack he pulled it on anyway. The cold air was crisp in the dewy morning light, but already he could see the black, heavy clouds hanging in the gloomy sky.

John sent out a silent thanks to God as a cab drove down Baker Street. It must be his lucky day. He made a lousy attempt to hail it and the cab pulled up by the pavement curb close by. Stepping in, a crackling noise escaped from jeans pocket. _What the hell?_ As soon as he was settled into the musty smelling seat, he awkwardly pulled out the mysterious object from his tight jeans pocket. Much to his surprise, it was the elusive piece of paper Lestrade had given him just two days ago. _Remember pool._ What had he meant by that? After Lestrade had given him the paper, he had looked over it for a few minutes, but after being able to draw no conclusions from it, John had left it and shoved it into his pocket, seemingly forgotten. But now after what had happened to Lestrade, it came into a whole new light for John. _What had Lestrade meant by that? Snooker pool? Paddling pool? Swimming pool? Swimming pool._ _That was it_. His rumbling stomach contorted at the thought. _Moriarty._ Well Sherlock had been proven right yet again. John really was an idiot. How could he have missed this blatantly obvious hint?

But what then, had Lestrade been suggesting about Irene? As the dark thought mulled in his whirring mind, John gasped involuntarily. Surely he hadn't been suggesting that Irene was working for Moriarty? The mere thought sickened him to the core. She had been running from him, not working for him. He dismissed the ridiculous notion. Irene wouldn't betray me. He knew that much.

_But then again..._

"Aw'right mate, we're 'ere!" The cab driver turned around expectantly, and John took his cue. Exiting the cab, he pulled the heavy coat closer around him; it really was a cold morning. Strange, the coat felt heavier today.

He entered into the warmth of the hospital reception, and thankfully he knew one of the nurses and managed to extract from her Lestrade's location, visiting hours and 'family only' be damned.

On entering the ward, it didn't take John long to guess Lestrade's location, even if there was a curtain drawn around the bed, he could still hear Sally's voice from half way across the room. He rushed forward, slipping between the partitions of the curtain. His eyes fell upon the figure lying on the bed, swathed in bandages. It took him seconds to process that it was Lestrade. He looked more corpse than a sleeping human. He was pale as a ghost, his face slick with a glossy layer of sweat, and black bags hung from under his eyes. Drips hung from him like life sucking tentacles. John had seen many patients that had looked worse than this, but to see Lestrade like this was truly _horrifying._

"John, I'm so glad you're here!" John turned to Sally walking towards him, and much to his surprise, she then proceeded to _hug _him. He stiffened a moment, but then considered how she must be feeling, so he awkwardly patted her on the back. After she moved away, another voice came from beside Lestrade's bed.

"It's good to see you John." Anderson spoke succinctly, but couldn't hide the slight shake in his voice. John suppressed the feeling to pinch himself. First Sally had hugged him, and now Anderson was speaking politely to him? But all things considered, John knew that the serious injury of a loved or close one did strange things to people.

Walking towards to Lestrade, he cast a brief medical eye over him. Sally was right; the knife had just missed the heart.

"What kind of knife was it?"

Sally took some time to reply. "It was an unusual choice of weapon, from what they could tell us it was some kind of serrated knife, but the weapon wasn't found at the scene."

"Why serrated?"

Sally shrugged. "Didn't have another weapon to hand, I suppose."

John looked at Anderson. "Any fingerprints found?"

"No. Whoever did this must be an experienced killer, they used gloves. We're still working on it though, I swear to God I'm going to find Lestrade's attacker if I have to it myself." Anderson's eyes steeled over.

John noticed that the area around Lestrade's mouth was swollen slightly, and looked bruised.

"What happened to his mouth?"

Sally gulped, as if to suppress the bile rising in her throat.

"They cut off the tip of his tongue."

John looked back at Lestrade, appalled. Why would someone feel the need to do that? The only purpose that could have was... Oh. _Someone wanted to stop Lestrade from talking_. Lestrade would not be able to talk at all for the next few weeks, and the chances of him every talking properly again was slim. _What sick, twisted bastard would do this?_

His mind slipped back to the note. _Remember pool. _But his revelation in the cab had solved that dilemma. But Lestrade's last words to John haunted him in the back of his mind.

_"Watch your back John. People aren't always as they seem..." _John's head whirred. One riddle after another, it seemed.

So Moriarty had done this to Lestrade. John's head spun. Leaving Irene alone in the flat was a mistake. What if Moriarty went after her now? A sharp knife of worry slid through him.

"Greg will be fine Sally, its fine, he's strong, and he'll pull through. I think I better go now, you know what happens when I leave Sherlock on his own for too long."

Sally nodded her head in understanding.

"I'll come back later on in the day and next time I might be able to drag Sherlock along." The clock in the corner taunted John. Irene's was all on her own...

"Let me give you my number then," Sally replied.

"Sure, I think I have my phone somewhere." John reached into pocket were he recalled placing his phone. Reaching into the depths, John's hand clasped over something sticky. The smell of rust and iron filled the air. _What the hell...?_ He knew that smell anywhere. He froze. He couldn't draw attention to himself.

"Sorry, I forgot to bring it with me. I'll be back later, okay?"

"See you later John." Sally spoke with a slight hint of suspicion in her voice.

"Bye John."John smiled briefly at Anderson.

His pace picked up as he left the ward. _What the hell was in his pocket? _Spotting a gents sign, he made a beeline towards it. Once he was securely locked inside a cubicle. Opening the pocket, he pulled out the mysterious object. As his eyes fell upon it, he drew in a breath and almost dropped it. He was holding a _bread knife. A serrated knife_, his mind echoed. And it was covered in brown, sticky blood. Oh gods. He flashed back to the recent memory of Lestrade's corpse like figure. _Some kind of serrated knife. _It was his bread knife. What if Sherlock...no, Sherlock wouldn't do that. For one he wouldn't just kill Lestrade, and two, if he did – god forbid - he would be a lot more careful at covering his tracks.

Then Sally's words from so long ago in the Study in Pink hit him in the chest.

"_One day we'll wake up and Sherlock Holmes will be the one standing over the body." Sally's voice was filled with venom._

"_Why?"_

"_Because he's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored."_

Never had John thought that those memorable words would send such a chill through him. Working on the basis that Sherlock had killed him, which would mean Irene could be alone with him.

_Shit._

Shoving the knife back into his pocket, he left the cubicle, stopping only to wash the blood off his hands. He looked at his pale face in the mirror. He couldn't waste any time.

_"Watch your back John. People aren't always as they seem."_

John realised how true those words where.

As he opened the door to 221b, John stopped only to take of that damned coat. _I can deal with the knife later._ He slipped quietly up the stairs, feet barely making a sound. He didn't want to alert anyone inside the flat to his presence. _Damn, he should have his gun with him now._ Opening the door, he stepped inside, leaving the door open.

But the sight that confronted him then was one he had not been expecting. It made the bile rise in his throat. Pure hatred and disgust clouded his mind. His vision turned red. It made him want to cry and scream at the same time. His trigger finger itched for a gun.

For there, in the kitchen, stood Irene and Sherlock. And they were _kissing_. It was a deep, passionate kiss. And it made John sick to the core. They were so engrossed that they had not even noticed his presence.

Well what was he thinking? Of course Irene had been too good to be true. And in the end, everyone always fell for Sherlock. Why have a plain, boring John Watson when you could have extraordinary, sparkling Sherlock Holmes?

He hadn't wanted to break down and cry this much since he'd cut his knee when he was 8.

His love and admiration for Irene soured instantly, but he did not hate her. He hadn't known her long enough to discover her true personality. But Sherlock, well Sherlock was a different matter altogether. He had thought he could trust Sherlock. _Truly_ trust Sherlock. He could have had any girl he wanted, but he just had to have Irene, didn't he?_ So much for being 'married' to his work._ He felt the wall of trust, friendship and respect he had built with Sherlock shatter and fall to the ground.

_Trust no one. _That, John thought, was the only true thing in the world.

He was caught between confronting the pair or leaving. In his state he would probably kill Sherlock. _No, best if he walk a little of the rage off._

So taking one last look at the pair, John closed the door silently behind him, a slow tear trailing down his face before he fiercely rubbed it away with his jumper sleeve.

_People aren't always as they seem._


	9. Silent Movie

**Hello reader! Yes, I know, been a while since I updated, no excuses. But anyway I'm now 14! (It's my birthday to day!) AH! Sorry, went off on a slight tangent there. A short, but necessary filler is this chapter, but then the big business starts! *wink wink* Anyway, I hope you like, and as always, R&R and enjoy!**

**This chapter is dedicated to all the lovely people who have taken the time to review so far! I love you guys!**

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As John slammed the flat door behind him, he walked. He strode steadily, feet slapping against the pavement, parting all those in his path. His welling eyes were fixed firmly on the pavement, and the breath exhaling from his nose mingled with the swirling fog that had descended upon London like a hawk. He walked for what seemed like an eternity, but he never faltered or halted his steady speed. Once or twice he cast an occasional glance over at the pubs he passed, but refrained from entering to 'drown his sorrows', as an image of Harry flashed to the forefront of his mind. Grief was a slippery slope, and the ravine at the bottom was a bottle of beer. No, John Watson was stronger than that.

He walked further and further away from Baker Street, but the inevitable followed him like a shadow. He could not hide forever; he must confront the treacherous pair sometime.

As he walked, he let his emotions slip out from him. He felt himself become robotic, inhuman. And he didn't care in the slightest. He just wanted all the hurt and betrayal that was pooling inside him to wash away. His urge to scream and hit out trickled away like blood from an open wound. He let himself deflate like a balloon, wither like a flower. The vigorous energy that had once inhabited him escaped through his breath, and after each intake he felt himself die a little more inside. His feet dragged along the pavement, all momentum gone. And his heart felt nothing.

The colour trickled from the world, so slowly at first that John didn't notice. Everything became grey, black, and monotonous. He forgot the world around him, the sound simply flicked off, like the turning off of an iPod. But still his world-weary body dragged him on; it would not let him rest, even for a moment.

Time became meaningless as he walked down Baker Street. As he approached 221b, a tall, familiar figure stepped out from behind the door. _Sherlock. _A little colour escaped back into the world, and the sound miraculously switched back on. But then he remembered what Sherlock had done, and his small smile dropped once more.

Sherlock turned around, and his eyes brightened as he saw John approach. But then his eyes widened with worry as he saw something behind John. He opened his mouth as if to shout a warning. But then another figure entered from behind the door_. Irene_. And she had a gun. _His gun._ Sherlock spun around. To John's horror, she aimed the gun at Sherlock, and without any hesitation, fired. Sherlock doubled in pain, and John gasped. The fog seemed tinted in red. He began to sprint towards Sherlock, yelling his name, but before he could take a step further, he felt a heavy blow smash down upon the back of his head, and star flashed before his sank to his knees, colliding sharply with the cold pavement, and his whole world turned black as an itchy, black canvas bag was pulled over his face. Handcuffs were clicked around his wrists and his body was tossed over a man's shoulder like he was a bag of potatoes. He felt himself being hauled into what he could only presume to be a van. A sharp needle suddenly stuck into his back, pricking like a thorn. He struggled helplessly, his body writhing, but he eventually succumbed to the drug coursing through his veins, and he went limp.

"Johnny boy, time to wake up!" That dreaded, sing song voice rang through his ears, and he had to blink away the grogginess as he was unceremoniously dumped on a hard, concrete floor, and the suffocating black bag pulled off his face.

He looked up defiantly into the face of the man he hated most.

"Hey Johnny boy, long time no see!" Maniacal giggles filled the air.

_Moriarty._


	10. Burn The Heart Out of You

**Please review at the end and tell me what you think! Many hugs and thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far! **

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"So, Johnny, how's life?"

John remained stoically silent.

If it weren't for the bloody handcuffs, he would be experiencing the pleasure of connecting his fist with Moriarty's smug face.

"Ah, giving me the silent treatment then Johnny?"

"It's John."

Moriarty cackled. "Alright, _John_."

John remained silent, biting his cheeks.

"Now, where did I leave Sherlock?"  
A groan emanated from a dark corner of the room.

"Ah, there he is! Come on out Sherlock, don't be shy!"  
Masked figures unceremoniously dumped a body on the hard, concrete floor like it was a sack of potatoes. John suppressed the urge the gasp as Sherlock's bruised face lolled in his direction.

Showing weakness was _not_ an option.

John cast a fleeting, analysing glance over Sherlock's body. The bullet wound in Sherlock's chest was oozing blood at an alarmingly fast rate, and he was so pale he appeared almost corpse-like. John could see no broken bones thankfully, but he appeared bruised and sore.

"Now, John, I presume you remember our little meeting at the pool?"

"How could I forget?" John bit down hard on his tongue, but it was too late. The biting comment had slipped out.

"Ah, finally, he speaks! Well, you must remember what I said then, don't you?"

John didn't reply.

"Ah, come on, John, don't be a spoil sport. Well, if you want to be that way, it's fine with me. Anyways, back to point. I'm going to burn the heart out of Sherlock. Well I'm guessing you know what that means for you, don't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Now come on, I know Sherlock said you were an idiot, but really?"

Silence.

"Okay then, make me spoil the dramatics by explaining. Really, you're no fun as a hostage. _You _are Sherlock's heart, John."

John remained very still.

"Sherlock has no heart. He's a sociopath."John lied through his teeth.

"Well we both now that's not quite true."

A tingle of déjà vu flew up John's spine. It was the pool all over again.

"You hear that Sherlock? I'm going to burn the heart out of you!" Moriarty ambled over to the crumpled figure of Sherlock, and gave him a sharp kick in the side.

"Don't touch him!" John yelled instinctively.

Moriarty laughed triumphantly.

"Ah, pets are always so touchingly protective."

John snarled ferociously.

"Ah, he even has the sound effects to match!"

"Shut up."

"Now now John, weren't you taught any manners? Anyway, I don't think you're in the position to make any demands. Lights, camera, action!"

The huge, industrial light bulbs suspended from the ceiling burst into blaring light, and momentarily blinded John. He had to blink several times before he could see again.

And when he did, he recoiled.

For there, in the centre of the room, was a huge stake of wood, sunk into a large platform, surrounded in clusters of twigs.

_Burn the heart out of you._

"Burn? Do you get it, John? I'm going to burn you!" Moriarty chuckled. "And Sherlock is going to watch. Now if you would be so kind as to follow me, John?"

Two pairs of large, rough hands grabbed him from behind, hoisting him up. John felt helplessly like a doll.

His dangling feet knocked against the wooden steps leading up to the platform. He struggled and squirmed helplessly, and received a swift whack in the shins after he attempted to kick out. The after effects of the drug hadn't worn off, and he felt groggy and heavy, body refusing to co-operate.

His body was thrust against the splintery stake, and a tight, thick rope tied around his waist, his hands still handcuffed painfully behind his back. His whole body ached, and his muscles were burning. His feet would not hold his weight, and he slouched against the rope, which was digging into his stomach, burning his skin. His head lolled, and his neck ached from the strain of holding it up.

He just wanted to sleep.

"John!"

John let out an involuntary sigh of relief as Sherlock's voice filled the room. But then he remembered the state Sherlock was in, and his hopes deflated once more. He scanned the room for Sherlock, and saw him propped up on a chair, hands restrained behind his back, a rope tied around his middle, and his ankles bound together.

John cringed at the thought of the agony Sherlock must be going through.

"Ah, my dear Sherlock, you're awake! Just in time to watch the show."Moriarty giggled.

"Don't."Sherlock uttered.

"Is that a plea I hear Sherlock? Really? The great detective, Sherlock Holmes, begging? I'm disappointed."

Sherlock thrashed in his bindings. More blood seeped from his gaping wound.

"Stop it Sherlock!" John yelled. The man really had no sense of self preservation.

"Ah, young love, how touching."

"Shut up Moriarty." John was desperate now. All the fear he had felt before left him. He had nothing to lose.

"What was that John? Burn me Moriarty? Well, if that's what you want." Moriarty produced a lighter from his pocket, flourishing it. "Tada!"

"What do you want Moriarty?" Sherlock growled.

"I want to burn the heart of you Sherlock."  
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"Well we both now that's not quite true."

"Why can't you just stop this pathetic little game, Moriarty? I'm bored."

"Already? But I was just getting started!"

"I'll leave you alone."

"Bit late for that now, isn't it Sherlock?"

"I'll do anything."

"No, no, dear, you just sit there. I saved you the best seat!"

Sherlock growled, but Moriarty ignored him.

"Let the show commence!" Moriarty flicked the lighter open, delicately holding it over the twigs until they caught fire.

"Now isn't that lovely!"

John choked on the smoke that was beginning to rise.

Suddenly two shots echoed throughout the room.

John heard a sound like to heavy weights dropping to the ground.

"Put it out Moriarty." A familiar voice filled the room.

_Irene!_

"Ah, Irene. How lovely of you to join us. Bit of a shame with the men though, they were quite good at their job."

"Put the god damn fire out Moriarty!"

"Do I need to remind you I have your sister?" Moriarty snarled.

"You can't hurt my sister anymore."

"Oh yes, I think I can."

"You're a bit cocky when I've got the gun."

"Well I don't usually like to get my hands dirty, but safety precautions-" He pulled out a gun – "are necessary."

He aimed the gun at John.

John gulped. He could feel the searing hurt beginning his legs, and the flames were getting a bit too close for comfort. His vision was distorted by the smoke, and it was beginning to irritate his eyes.

A shot fired through the air. Moriarty crumpled to the ground.

John gasped audibly. It had been so easy. Moriarty was dead.

But the gasp had been a mistake. Smoke filled his lungs and he choked, gasping like a goldfish, which only succeed in inhaling more smoke. His world slowed down as the oxygen slowly left him, and his pounding heart slowed down, tightening.

Flames were licking at his legs, and it was pure agony.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

And John Watson burned.

"John!"


	11. The Woman

**Hello reader! Absolutely amazed that this is the final chapter! I really hope that you've all enjoyed reading this story because I've certainly enjoyed writing it! Almost four months since I started writing it and it's been quite a ride! A massive thank you to all who have reviewed, favorited and alerted, you really gave me faith in this story! And if you you could give me one final review, you would make me one very happy author! Please enjoy and review!**

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The white, blinding light pierced his eyes.

_Heaven?_

_No, don't be an idiot John; of course you're not in Heaven._

Slowly widening his heavy eyelids, John quickly shut them again. The excruciating light seared his mind like a hot, serrated knife.

Tentatively, he felt out to the rest of his body. Every fibre of his flesh ached, groaning painfully, lethargic with drowsiness.

_Pain killers._

_Pain killers meant hospital._

Slowly, bit by bit, John opened his eyes. He blinked several times, the light searing circles into his tender eyes.

Looking down, he saw crisp, starchy sheets wrapped tightly around his middle. A drip hung off his arm. Plump pillows supported his aching neck.

His legs felt particularly heavy, and thicker than usual.

_Obviously John. You were burnt._

_Wait. Why wasn't he still burning?_

He felt a presence beside him, a pair of mysterious eyes boring into his side.

Slowly, he rotated his head.

And almost jumped in the air when he came face to face with Mycroft, staring at him intently.

John opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his parched throat.

"Water." Mycroft said it not as a question, but as a statement.

A few minutes later, a hand that John could only presume to be 'Anthea's', handed Mycroft a full glass of water. Mycroft in turn gently passed the glass to John, who grasped it between his hands, lifting it to his cracked lips. The cool, crisp liquid flowed down his throat, reinvigorating his mind.

"Now, Dr Watson, how do you feel?"

"Where am I?"

"A hospital. Private, I can assure you. Now, how are you feeling?"

"How did I get here?"

"That was not my question Dr Watson."  
"I feel fine. Now tell me, how did this happen?"

"I believe you have Irene Adler to thank for your survival. And Sherlock's. For that I shall be eternally grateful for her. My brother has the rather annoying habit of getting himself into the most precarious of scrapes, as no doubt you will know."

"You mean she put out the fire?"

Mycroft nodded.

John's mind flashed back to the broken and wounded image of Sherlock.

"Where's Sherlock?"

Mycroft gestured behind him, shifting his wide frame slightly as to offer John a glimpse of Sherlock. He lay there peacefully, eyes closed, chest rising and falling evenly. He looked only slightly paler than usual, but only the heavy bandages around his middle indicated the severe injury he had suffered.

John had never seen Sherlock look quite so innocent before.

"How is he?"  
"Sherlock is quite stable. If you had woken a few hours early, you would have seen him walking around. Sherlock is persistently stubborn when he puts his mind to it."

John chuckled weakly. "Don't I know it."

He looked over at the Sherlock, but all he could see was the gaping wound Irene had left.

_Why would she do that?_

Moriarty's words slipped back into his mind.

'_I have your sister.'_

_So Irene had a sister._

_What if Moriarty had blackmailed Irene into doing all she had done?_

The thought gave John a small slice of relief. But it only eased the gaping wound that Irene's departure had left.

_She was the only woman he had ever truly loved, even if she had never loved him back._

The revelation burnt him more than Moriarty's flames ever had.

"Now I may not be a doctor John, but I advise you to sleep. You need it."

John felt rather like a child, but did not object. Instead he merely leant back into the pillows, and closed his eyes.

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The sound of gentle breathing filled John's ears, and slowly he prised open his eyelids.

Much to his surprise, Sherlock sat on the chair Mycroft had previously occupied, and his chocolate curls sprawled across John's starch white sheets, contrasting like night and day. His head lay very gentle over John's stomach, and his breath tickled John's exposed skin. He remained very still, not wanting to spoil Sherlock's peace. He maintained his regular breathing, and was about to close his eyes when he heard Sherlock begin to talk.

At first he thought it was directed at him, but then he realised Sherlock was talking to himself. His voice barely rose above a whisper, and John strained his ears to hear.

"I'm so sorry John. For everything. I didn't mean for you to get hurt. I didn't mean to kiss Irene. I don't know why I did it in the first place. For a sociopathic genius I'm so stupid. But I paid for my stupidity in the end. I had to watch you burn. I'm so sorry, so, so, sorry John."

Much to John's shock, a small sob broke out from Sherlock, and his lean frame began to quiver.

John debated whether to comfort him or not. He knew what Sherlock's pride and dignity meant to him, knowing that he had seen Sherlock like this would be humiliating beyond belief. But he didn't want to let him cry alone.

In the end, he let himself lie there as Sherlock shuddered. He felt such a coward, but did not want to admit to witnessing Sherlock's moment of weakness. It had truly shocked him that Sherlock cared so much for him that he would cry for him.

In the end he let the black abyss of sleep reign over his mind.

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It was the fragrant smell that awoke him next.

_Irene._

"John." Irene's lyrical whisper filled the now dark hospital room.

John struggled to find words, so he remained silent.

"I just came to say how sorry I am for what I've done. Please forgive me."

John nodded, words threatening to tumble out all at once.

"Moriarty had my sister; I had to do anything he said. It was Mycroft that saved her, and I came after him. You understand why I did what I did, don't you?"

"Of course Irene. It's okay." John finally managed to whisper.

"Good." Irene's eyes glistened with tears, and her blue eyes sparkled in the moonlight, which shone through the window as bright as the sun.

"I guess this is goodbye then." John whispered hoarsely.

"Goodbye John." Irene leant forward, and tentatively planted a kiss on his lips. "I will always love you."

"Goodbye Irene."

And with that she was gone.

John sighed, and looked over at the sleeping figure of Sherlock, curled up under the sheets in the foetus position. His eyes burned raw.

A slow, steady tear trickled down his cheek as he closed his eyes.

* * *

It was many weeks before John was allowed to return home to Baker Street.

But he and Sherlock recuperated quickly, and soon life returned to normal.

Well, as normal as life could ever get if you lived with Sherlock.

They rarely mentioned Moriarty, and if ever referring to Irene, it would always be under the title 'The Woman.' As they retold the tale to Mrs Hudson, it was under the title 'When John Met the Woman.'

And when John courageously wrote of the tale in his blog a few years later, it would be under the same name.

Even in one small, burnt room of John's heart the plaque read 'The Woman.'

And John knew he had never loved one woman so much.

_Finis_


End file.
